The Cleansing Flames

The name-day celebration

Alyosha Afanasevich set a brisk pace, zig-zagging east from Haymarket Square in the direction of the Moskovskaya District. It was all Virginsky could do to keep up, but he was determined not to let the man out of his sight. Alyosha Afanasevich had not, in fact, explicitly consented to take Virginsky to the party, but neither had he flatly refused. Since leaving the tavern, he had not addressed a single word to Virginsky, ignoring the questions that Virginsky fired at his back. All this, together with the speed of his march across the city, could be taken as an indication that he was trying to shake Virginsky off. Certainly, Virginsky had the impression that the man would not have turned a hair if he had simply stopped following him. But he himself could not bear the thought of losing Alyosha Afanasevich.

They walked along the northern embankment of the Fontanka, passing the riverside facade of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. The sight of the building reminded Virginsky of an earlier case, the first that he had worked on with Porfiry Petrovich. There would come a time, he imagined, when every building in St Petersburg would bring to mind one case or another.

It was a clear, mild night: under different circumstances, one for ambling unhurriedly alongside the river, anticipating the pleasures of the white nights that lay only a couple of months ahead. But this was no romantic stroll.

The force of the pace, coupled with the vodka he had drunk, was causing Virginsky to overheat. Despite his indulgence over the last two nights, Virginsky was not a habitual drinker. He welcomed the exercise as an opportunity to clear his head.

As Alyosha Afanasevich turned right onto the Chernyshov Bridge, Virginsky put on a spurt to draw level with him. Their footsteps reverberated over the arching stonework. ‘Isn’t it a bit strange, you fellows celebrating name days? I thought you urged the desecration and destruction of everything connected with the Church. Name days, after all, are Orthodox festivals.’

As their feet came down on the other side of the bridge, Virginsky at last succeeded in provoking a response from his companion. It was perhaps not the one he would have hoped for: ‘Once again you reveal your naivety through your remarks. I hope you do not say anything so foolish when we are at my friends’ apartment. Indeed, it would be best if you did not say anything at all.’

‘Will your friends not think me rude?’

‘I will tell them you are a mute.’

‘Would it not be better to educate me as to why my question was so foolish? Then I will guard against making similar mistakes in the future. To me, it seemed a perfectly reasonable question, bearing in mind the manifesto that you once gave me. To mark the saint’s day corresponding to one’s name — one’s Christian name — does seem a little at odds with the notion of God the Nihilist, do you not think?’

Alyosha Afanasevich gave a heavy sigh. ‘Naturally we do not celebrate name days as devout Orthodox Christians celebrate them. Indeed, amongst ourselves we do not use the names our parents gave us at all. We have given one another new names, names more in keeping with our roles and our destinies. And you may take it from me that we do not give a damn for the calendar of saints’ days.’

‘What is yours?’

‘What?’

‘The name that your friends have given you? I take it they do not call you Alyosha Afanasevich.’

‘No. To my friends, I am Hunger.’

‘Hunger?’

‘It is not a reference to physical hunger, to the hunger of appetite, but rather to my hunger for the revolution.’

‘I see.’

‘Mine is the hunger of the flame.’

‘Yes. Quite. But why then are we going to a name-day party?’

‘Because it is not a name-day party.’

‘What is it then?’

‘A pretext.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Virginsky nodded his approval. His eyes widened as if in excitement, but he said nothing, and indeed kept silent for the rest of the way.

*

Alyosha Afanasevich led them to a four-storey stone apartment building at the corner of Kuznechny Lane and Yamskaya Street. The neighbourhood was noticeably run-down. Not surprisingly: the Moskovskaya District was a predominantly working-class area, with a high proportion of peasant workers, migrants from the villages. Somehow, the dreariness of the area reflected the fact that the majority of its inhabitants were men living without women.

The nearby shops were all shuttered up, reminding Virginsky that there was also a significant Jewish population in Moskovskaya District. It was Friday, the Sabbath. While many of the shops on Nevsky Prospect might keep late hours tonight, those in Moskovskaya would not.

A few steps led down to the entrance of the building, below the level of the street. The porter nodded Alyosha Afanasevich in, as if he were a regular visitor.

They took the stairs up to the second floor. In truth, the interior of the building was better kept than Virginsky had been led to expect from the air of general neglect outside. The doors of the apartments they passed were all closed, presenting blank, demure rectangles of respectability. Perhaps they were the apartments of Jewish families, devoutly observing the Sabbath within. But even the door to the apartment they were visiting was closed.

‘This doesn’t look like the apartment of someone who is celebrating a name day,’ Virginsky observed, as they waited for Hunger’s complicated series of knocks to be answered. He thought he could detect the murmur of voices within, tense rather than celebratory. ‘If you wish to construct a pretext, you should do so more carefully.’

‘We cannot afford to admit all and sundry.’

‘Then it is clearly not a Russian party.’

‘It is intended to be an intimate gathering of close friends.’

The door began to move, drawing Virginsky’s attention. He felt the thump of apprehension in his chest, sensing that he was standing at the threshold, not simply to an apartment in the Moskovskaya District but to a formless and irresistible abyss — to the future, in other words.

The face that greeted him, if such a look of hostility and suspicion could be said to be any kind of greeting, was elusively familiar to him. After a moment’s concentration, he recognised the young ‘Bazarov’ who had discussed the physiology of the heart with Porfiry Petrovich at the office of Affair. Without opening the door to its full extent, the young man turned sullenly to Virginsky’s companion. ‘This man is a magistrate. Why have you brought him here? Have you betrayed us, Botkin?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

Virginsky was struck by the fact that ‘Bazarov’ had used neither Alyosha Afanasevich nor Hunger in addressing the man.

‘In the first place,’ continued Virginsky’s companion, ‘I of course know that he is a magistrate. That is the very reason why I have brought him here. In the second place, you know better than to address me by that name.’

‘Are you not Botkin?’

‘Don’t compound your stupidity with insolence!’

‘If you have brought this magistrate here, then presumably you think you can trust him. And if you trust him, you will not object to him knowing your real name, Alyosha Afanasevich Botkin.’

‘And what if I tell him your name?’

‘I dare say he already knows it. He was at the office the other day.’

‘I don’t know your name,’ said Virginsky to the young man.

‘He is rather naive,’ explained Botkin. ‘Touchingly so, at times.’

‘And so you think you will be able to manipulate him?’

‘It is not a question of that. He wishes to help the cause.’

The young man regarded Virginsky sceptically, his expression slightly pained. ‘I shall have to ask Kirill Kirillovich. It is his name day, after all.’

‘That has nothing to do with anything, as you well know,’ said Botkin.

‘There are important people here. It is said that we are to be visited by a member of the central committee. Though, of course, none of us will know who he is.’

‘How do you know that I have not brought him?’ Botkin now treated the young man to the sarcastic smile he had practised on Virginsky.

The young man’s expression grew unpleasant as he considered Virginsky afresh. ‘Make up your mind. Either he is a new recruit who wishes to help the cause, or he is an important personage on the central committee. Which is it to be?’

‘Let us in,’ said Botkin, pushing at the door.

When it came to it, the young man did not resist. He let the door go with a strangely girlish laugh. ‘On your head be it,’ he threw out as he turned his back on them.

They followed him into an entrance hall with a number of doors coming off it. One door stood open, revealing a carelessly furnished drawing room where the assembly was already gathered, about twenty guests in all. The conversation was subdued, and in fact ceased completely as they entered. Virginsky was surprised to see women as well as men there. He thought he recognised some other faces from the office of Affair. Certainly he had the sense that he was recognised, and that the faces that were turned on him were far from welcoming.

A lean, somehow slovenly looking woman of about forty was handing out tea, which she served from a samovar on an oval table draped with a threadbare cloth. She bustled about the room with a sarcastic joviality, suggesting that she resented the presence of these guests in her apartment. She was taking great delight in keeping up the pretence of a name-day celebration. A man of about the same age as her, balding and anxious, rose from a sofa and approached Botkin. His face was careworn, brows pulled down in a permanent frown.

‘Who is this?’

‘Kirill Kirillovich, may I introduce Pavel Pavlovich Virginsky. A magistrate who wishes to perform a great service for the movement.’

‘Can you trust him?’

Botkin did not reply, except to crank up the angle of his lopsided leer, as if to say that it did not matter to him one way or the other if Virginsky could be trusted or not.

‘What do you mean by that?’ demanded Kirill Kirillovich indignantly.

‘Can I trust you? Can you trust me? Can he trust us? I mean to say, my dear Kirill Kirillovich, that trust is not an absolute. It is always relative, always provisional, never stable. Trust, whatever it is, is a highly volatile substance. I am not even sure it exists at all. And so, there is no meaningful answer to the question you asked. One must act as if there is trust between us, otherwise we could get nothing done. Still and all, at the same time, one must never lower one’s guard. In essence, trust no one. Do not even trust yourself, Kirill Kirillovich.’

‘That is absurd. More of your mysticism, Alyosha Afanasevich. You know that there is to be an important personage here tonight? I trust that nothing untoward will occur.’

‘How do you know that there will be someone here tonight?’

‘Why, you yourself told me!’

‘Exactly. Therefore, I hardly think you need to issue such warnings to me.’ Botkin scanned the room. ‘Our people are all here, I see.’

‘We are still awaiting Dolgoruky.’

Virginsky cocked his head sharply at the name. ‘Prince Dolgoruky is coming tonight?’

‘We do not recognise such titles,’ answered Kirill Kirillovich. ‘But yes, Dolgoruky is expected. Do you know him?’ His frown darkened as he considered Virginsky.

‘I have. . met him. His name came up in connection with a case I was investigating.’

‘And are you here investigating a case?’ asked Kirill Kirillovich.

Before Virginsky could answer, the woman handing out tea thrust a cup into his hand. ‘Everyone must have tea! If this is to be a proper Russian name day. Any friend of my husband’s is a friend of mine.’

Kirill Kirillovich’s frown changed its tenor in the presence of his wife. It seemed to go from something fierce and disapproving to a look of helpless despair. ‘Varvara Alexeevna, this is not necessary, as you know.’

‘Oh but it is, Kirill Kirillovich,’ insisted his wife. ‘We must create the semblance of a true name day, in the event of a police raid. At any rate, it is your name day. And we have guests. Why should I not give them tea?’

‘Let us get on with it,’ said Botkin. ‘Dolgoruky is late. We cannot wait for ever.’

Kirill Kirillovich gave a sharp nod of assent. ‘I for one am anxious to begin.’

Just as this was decided, there was an exuberant rap on the door.

‘Dolgoruky,’ said Kirill Kirillovich sourly.

‘He does not even use the entry code!’ complained Botkin.

‘That is how we may know it is Dolgoruky.’

‘If he will not trouble to learn the code, then he must not be admitted,’ declared Botkin. ‘We must teach him the discipline that he is incapable of instilling in himself.’

‘Not admit the Prince!’ cried Varvara Alexeevna, bustling past them to the door. ‘It will be a sorry party without the Prince.’